


The World Meeting

by derevosky



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Universe, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 14:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14107476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevosky/pseuds/derevosky
Summary: When their eyes met, the world did as well.And they would meet the world back.





	The World Meeting

The flickering embers settled as they resigned from their previous engulfing forms. The fractured asphalt roads crumbled as former skyscrapers crashed into the ground. The black smoke choked the remaining indigo out of the stretched horizon. There were no stars left to see, for the constellations of ashes had replaced them. The artificial moon was barely hanging, shedding faint light through the thick smog. Amongst the ruins were corpses, and two beings barely breathing.

There was a man with skewed glasses whose eyes were blue and broken. There were wounds scattered on his face despite the disheveled golden yet dull hair covering most of them. His jacket was torn along with his guts. He was on another man’s lap.

The other had a remarkable yet slouched height. He was cradling the bespectacled man, and for some reason that man made him numb. His violet eyes slowly turned to gray like his hair. His face was almost close to the tanned and burnt; his prominent nose was almost bumping. Both of their lips were dry. His damaged scarf was covering their bruised faces enough.

The broken man before him cupped his pale cheek with his wet leather glove while he struggled to form foreign words. His voice was hoarse, and the other tried his best to understand what he was saying. Before he could conclude whatever he said, his hand fell lifelessly along with his breath. His dead blue eyes were open yet stared at nothing.

The man on his lap didn’t move anymore.

The tall one didn’t know there could be silence despite the chaos surrounding him. He became aware lacking a heart as he didn’t feel any beat when he should have. All he could hear was a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

He touched his own face, treasuring the warmth this person had given. He accidentally checked his hands and there was blood. His stature began to shake as he glanced at those stilled eyes behind the cracked glasses; his strangled sobs erupted into a desperate scream.

.

A young boy abruptly sat straight, shouted a name he didn’t know but it felt so natural, yet so painful. He panted on beat with his palpitations while he clutched his chest, soothing the stabbing feeling until it was gone. He felt his cheeks wet, and reluctantly touched them. He checked his shivering hand, and there were tears, slightly relieved that they weren’t red. In distress, he burrowed his fingers through his silver hair, and he let the tears pour as he bit his lip. He wailed silently as he could, but his shallow breaths didn’t help. He gave up on being discreet, and cried out whatever trapped inside his heavy heart.

His parents barged in, and asked him what happened. He told them everything he could remember and they asked him what was it about, but they couldn’t understand a word. He received no answers but their embraces, and comforting voices. They were there for him until he could doze off, or as he convinced them.

Ivan Braginsky was seven, and he knew he would not sleep well anymore after what he had experienced.

.

Ivan Braginsky was eight, and the same nightmare recurred and kept recurring, and it was growing vivid that he couldn’t take it anymore. He told his parents, who were ever so supportive, and he was thankful they managed to subside his fears. He continued living with vibrant eyes, and childish woes. The dreams didn’t visit him as clear as before, and often became too vague to remember in the morning.

In their neighborhood, he had met a boy named Raivis, and for some reason, he felt like he had met him before. Shrugging the strange sense of familiarity, Ivan was thankful for having another friend to play with

Until Raivis showed feared out of nowhere.

He never knew why.

He couldn’t even find the words to describe the different shades of hollowness in his chest. Since then, the dreams came crashing like a wave. He was drowning in a company of strangers’ memories.

.

When he was nine, his parents noticed how he became unsettlingly quiet. They were used to his youthful curiosity, and his adorable friendliness. His mother, fashioned with luxury yet had a humble face, asked him what was bothering him, but his response were only distant eyes. His father, a wealthy man who bared a strong name, was quite impatient as he inquired him sternly. Ivan began breaking down, and told them every detail of his dreams through uncontrollable sobs. Both of them wore worried expressions, his father flabbergasted while his mother was brink of crying. They embraced their child, and kept telling him they were just nightmares. Ivan kept shaking his head, while they only pursed their lips.

.

When he was ten, he was too mature for his age. No one bothered talking to him like before, and he didn’t mind. Thanks to a psychiatrist, his parents were aware that his mind had stressful activities which could compare to an adult working, and they had every right to be worried and cautious. Still, he didn’t tell them anything for he didn’t have the heart to be regarded as the boy who had nightmares, and kept freaking about it. They respected his privacy, and provided what they could offer to help. Ivan was thankful and paid them back by being a good son as much as he could.

He would wear the sweetest smiles that could barely fool anyone. They knew his odd maturity, and preferences for joy, such as observing from afar while giggling to himself. He wanted to reach out but he was out of place. They forgot he was a kid like them.

He instead focused on dealing with his studies while he tried solving the visions he knew were more than dreams. He wrote and drew everything meticulously in a journal he vowed to keep dearly. From their names and their jobs to bits of history and culture of this strange yet familiar world, everything was there in detail. He discovered that he and his comrades were the representatives of supposedly countries, even sharing the names of those nations, and they served the political leaders of all over the world. They had outlived most of the people, and he didn’t have a clue why.

These nightmares slowly turned to daydreams and visions as he grew older. And there’s one thing he was sure of:

His name was Russia.

And the man on his lap was named America.

And he never ceased to wonder if these were true.


End file.
